


The White Bee

by CrossMyDNA



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Roommates, Self-Esteem Issues, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, talking about feelings, theatre nerds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 05:47:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17380754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrossMyDNA/pseuds/CrossMyDNA
Summary: Dean checked daily for a soulmark to appear on his skin, but never saw any trace of a word or doodle.Nevertheless, he drew on himself constantly in the hopes of his soulmate one day replying.He wanted to find his soulmate more than anything.But his best friend Cas's smile could make him forget his soulmate in an instant.





	The White Bee

**Author's Note:**

> I literally wrote this like... 4 years ago and never posted it lmao.
> 
> I contemplated changing the characters since I'm not in the Supernatural fandom anymore, but there are a bit too many to do that easily.
> 
> So here ya go! The zillionth college/roommates/soulmates AU that no one asked for.

 

After 21 years, Dean was beginning to doubt he even _had_ a soulmate. He tunes out his civil engineering professor with well over an hour still left in the lecture, and begins discreetly doodling on his forearm. Dr. Paul had expressly forbidden the act, insisting it was “The only thing more disruptive than _texting_.”

Everyone knew how it went—you draw something on your hand, arm, thigh, wherever, and it shows up on your soulmate’s skin in the same place. Not permanently, of course—or so Dean has been told. He hasn’t once seen so much as a stray speck of ink anywhere on his body; he checked almost _daily_ , not wanting to miss the possibility that his soulmate was just incredibly tidy, or in freaking Australia or something and on a completely different time schedule. That would be just his luck.

Dean sighs through his nose and drags the black Biro gently across his skin in neat, curving lines. He draws a sweeping suspension bridge crossing a vast body of water (well, a few squiggly lines, but close enough). He draws each truss and cable carefully, like he has a dozen times by now, adding random flourishes here and there. At least if Dr. Paul catches him drawing, he can use the excuse that inspiration struck and he was working on his upcoming project. But maybe, if the stars and planets and whatever else was out there aligned just right, his soulmate will finally see one of his drawings and draw something in return.

It’s possible, of course, that his soulmate just hadn’t written anything on themself since they turned 16. Dean’s mom told him that unless both people were of age and had drawn something on their skin, the “magic” wouldn’t work. Dean doesn’t believe in magic, but it’s a nice thought.

Sam had told him to keep trying. To keep drawing and writing and see if anything happened. To not lose hope. Sam met his soulmate, Jessica, a little over a year ago. He’d woken up early on his 16th birthday and immediately drew a stupid dog on the back of his hand. Every day for _months_ he drew some little object or animal until one day, a red rose appeared on his forehead. Sam and Jess found each other shortly after and had been inseparable since. Lucky bastards.

Dean adds clouds and covers each freckle on his arm with the silhouette of a seagull. He thinks about what it would be like to fly, and shudders at the thought of being so high off the ground. Maybe his soulmate likes flying. He adds a small airplane inside his elbow just in case.

The hollow clank of a meter stick falling to the floor pulls Dean out of his thoughts. His professor hastily picks it up, places it back on the marker rack, then scribbles the pages he expects them to read for next class ( _83 pages, ugh_ ) on the whiteboard. Dr. Paul dismisses them with a not unfriendly wave, and hurries out of the classroom before any of his students have even stood up. Dean shoves his things into his black L.L. Bean backpack—adorned with an embroidered ‘DW’ that his mother had insisted on way back in high school—and files out of the lecture hall.

Once outside in the cool spring air, Dean rolls back down the sleeves of his Henley, self-conscious that someone will know about his millionth pathetic attempt at reaching out to his soulmate. His stomach grumbles as he treks across campus to the dining hall, avoiding the scattered puddles from last night’s rain. Inside the dining hall, he pulls his student ID out of his back pocket and hands it to Jo at the entrance to the Roadhouse.

“Weren’t you _just_ here, Winchester?” the blonde asks as she swipes his card through the kiosk.

Dean grins at her. “Yep, that’s because all the other places in here suck. Plus, I told Cas and Charlie I’d meet them for lunch. You off any time soon?”

She shakes her head, handing him back his card. “Just got here. I have class right after, but I’m down for dinner if you guys want to meet up.”

“Cool, text me when you’re out,” Dean says. “It might be later, though. We’ve got a lot of work to do on the set before this weekend.”

“That’s fine. I know how dedicated you theater nerds are,” she jokes.

Dean salutes her goodbye and makes a beeline for the burger station. The smell of bacon and onions makes his mouth water. He grabs a ready-made plate piled with fries and a burger that threatens to topple over with fillings. Damn, they really need to serve beer in this place. Maybe he should ask Ellen if she has any sway with the higher-ups as the head chef. 

Dean contemplates the top three brews that they should definitely have on tap if that ever happens, and makes his way to their usual table by the wall of windows.

As he approaches, he hears Charlie complaining—again—about how incompetent the theater lighting tech is.

Dean takes his usual seat next to Castiel, his best friend and roommate of the past three years.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says with a bright smile once Dean sits down. Dean writes off the churning in his stomach as hunger pangs.

“Heya, Cas,” Dean replies, immediately shoving a handful of fries into his mouth, then turning to his other best friend. “What’d Aaron fuck up this time, Charlie?”

“He completely messed up my lighting cues!” she says, spearing a cucumber slice a bit too aggressively with her fork. “I had them all done for the run-through and he changed half of them for _no reason_.”

“I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding,” Cas supplies, trying as usual to see the good in people. Dean loves that about him, even if he is a bit naive about it at times.

“Or maybe he’s doing it to get you to spend more time with him.” Dean waggles his eyebrows at Charlie, who scrunches up her face in disgust.

“Well it’s annoying,” she says. “And he’s majorly barking up the wrong tree if that’s the case.”

Dean laughs and finally bites into his burger, savoring the taste. “Is he still drawing those little hearts on his hands?” Dean asks.

Cas huffs out a laugh as Charlie groans.

“Of course he is, even though he knows half the people he tries it on are already taken,” she replies.

Aaron was notorious for trying to find his soulmate. He would constantly draw multi-colored hearts on the back of his hand and not-so-subtly look at the hands of everyone around him to see if there was a match. The so-called Heart Method was pretty common when people first turned 16, though most people grew out of it in a year or two and moved up to more “adult” things like writing a simple “Hey” somewhere. It makes Dean feel better about his own situation, though he keeps his own doodles more to himself, only showing Cas and occasionally Benny or Charlie when he draws something he’s particularly proud of.

They sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, each focusing on their food. Cas takes a final bite of his half sandwich and turns to Dean as Charlie gets up to refill her water.

“How was your class, Dean?” Cas asks.

“Eh, same old. Dr. Paul assigned way too much reading, and we have to turn in rough drafts of our bridge projects next week.” Dean takes another sip of his Coke and continues, “I’m pretty much done with mine, though.” He smirks and rolls up his sleeve, showing his friend the drawing he’d spent the better part of an hour working on.

Cas’s eyes widen, and Dean is struck by how blue they are in the early afternoon sunlight.

“That’s gorgeous, Dean,” he says earnestly.

Dean feels his cheeks heat up at the compliment, and somewhat shyly pulls his sleeve back over the drawing, now baggy around his wrist from having been rolled up and down too often that day.

“You likely need to turn that in on paper, though,” Cas suggests.

Dean snorts and replies with a, “No shit, Sherlock.” Cas has obviously seen his numerous drawings scattered around their dorm and tacked up on the walls. His dry humor never fails to make Dean smile.

Charlie returns a minute later, without her refill, and starts packing up her things. “I just ran into Bobby, he’s gonna open up the theater a bit early for us, if we want to head over there now,” she informs them.

Dean and Cas nod and stack their plates and cups onto Charlie’s before heading out of the Roadhouse with a wave to Jo. During the short walk to the theater building, they take bets on how deep Mr. Roche’s V-neck will be when the director inevitably shows up to check on their progress.

By the time they get to the back of the theater, Bobby has already opened the large shop door for them and a few other actors and students who showed up to help with the set and props. He greets them with a gruff, “Hey, kids,” and hands Dean a drill and box of screws to get to work on the few set pieces that _Our Town_ called for.

It was obvious that no one actually liked the play. Dean read a total of 5 pages of Cas’s script before he was bored to tears. Unfortunately, Fergus Crowley, the chair of the Performing Arts Department, had the final say on the plays and musicals. He claimed that it would suit the older audiences, but Dean knew Crowley was just a dick and wanted to make them suffer.

Cas got the lead in the play, and Dean couldn’t have been prouder. Despite his best friend’s general lack of social skills, the guy could act like a champ. He’d been in every play the college performed—the lead or supporting character in the last four. When he dragged Dean to an early rehearsal of _Tartuffe_ a couple years ago, Dean was enthralled by how _different_ Cas was in character, either conveying subtle emotions or over-the-top gestures and movements depending on what the role called for. It was a completely different side of his best friend, and Dean would never get tired of watching him perform.

The extra credit he got in his engineering class for helping with set construction didn’t hurt, either.

Dean puts on the thick carpentry gloves he keeps in his backpack and starts moving the large pieces of plywood across the shop to work on them more easily. He sees Charlie and Cas wheeling the cart of giant, rubber flooring rolls down the hallway, and rushes to prop open the double doors leading to the stage for them.

“Thank you, kind sir!” Charlie says whimsically as she passes through the doors, several rolls of gaffer tape lining her arms.

Cas gives him a small smile, obviously straining with the weight of the cart. Dean’s heart skips a beat, and he finds himself grinning back so hard that his cheeks ache. He might have a _tiny_ crush on his best friend, soulmate be damned.

Charlie and Cas begin lifting the large rolls out one by one, carefully placing them on the floor and rolling them out to cover the wood stage with matte rubber. Dean allows himself to watch for a few minutes, marveling at the way Cas’s back muscles flex in his (let’s be honest, not tight enough) gray t-shirt.

Suddenly, he feels a towel hit the back of his head.

“I ain’t paying you to stand around and ogle, boy,” Bobby says as Dean rubs the back his head.

“Heh, you’re not paying me at all.” 

“Right,” Bobby says. “Well come help me cut out these background pieces. They need to be painted and left out to dry tonight.” Dean nods and follows the shop director.

After an hour and a half of cutting, sanding, and drilling the pieces onto supports, the background pieces are finally finished—a cluster of pine trees, a school, a church, and a few gravestones. They prop up the pieces against the shop and hallway walls, careful to place down drop cloths anywhere paint might splatter.

Bobby rounds up Cas and Charlie, along with Garth, Gabriel, Hannah, a scrawny freshman Dean doesn’t recognize, and Charlie’s girlfriend Dorothy to help with the painting. They decide to pair off in twos and each take one of the pieces to get the base coats finished for the senior art students to add the final touches the next day.

“Dibs on the graveyard!” Gabriel yells, grabbing a can of gray paint and more paintbrushes than are strictly necessary. Hannah rolls her eyes beside him, taking a few smaller cans and following him to their board.

“No inappropriate names or causes of death, Gabriel,” Cas calls out from across the shop.

“No promises, Cassie!”

Castiel shakes his head fondly. Dean never really understood their friendship. Gabe could be kind of a douche at times, but Cas genuinely seemed to like him, so Dean tolerated him.

Dean and Cas get stuck with the church cutout in the hallway, which Dean isn’t thrilled about. At least it’s basically just a paint-by-number, since one of the fine arts professors had already sketched in the lines. Dean is artistic, sure, but his talents end with technical drawings and doodles. He knows fuck all about color theory.

Cas returns from the shop with a few cans of paint, rollers, brushes, and some spare towels tucked under his arm. His dark hair sticks up everywhere, slightly damp with sweat, and Dean wants to run his fingers through it.

He really needs to calm down.

“How’re rehearsals coming?” Dean asks him, prising open the paint cans with a screwdriver.

“Well, half the cast isn’t off book yet, our costumer is threatening to quit because Mr. Roche is driving her crazy with changes, and we still don’t know whether we’re going to use pre-recorded sound effects or have someone do them live,” Cas lists off, loading up a roller with white paint.

Dean laughs. “So, the usual?”

“Pretty much, yes.”

“You must be off book though, yeah?”

“Of course, Dean. I knew all my lines weeks ago. The first full run is two days away, and tech week starts next Monday.” Cas sighs, clearly exasperated. Having done this for several years now, Dean knows how rough tech week is—on everyone. Hell, it exhausts _him_ , and he isn’t even _in_ the shows. He just helps build the sets and move them on and off stage during the performances.

“Don’t worry, you’ll pull it together like always,” Dean assures him with a pat on the back.

“Thank you, Dean.” Another smile, and Dean wants to die a little bit.

Whoever Castiel’s soulmate is a lucky son-of-a-bitch. Speaking of… He’s always wondered why he never sees his friend write on himself. He isn’t the type to overtly show off like some people are, but Dean would have thought he’d have at least tried it before. Maybe he already has? A chill runs down his spine when he thinks about it. What if Cas already found his soulmate and never told him? No, they tell each other basically everything. Cas wouldn’t keep something like that from Dean. Would he? Dean feels slightly sick at the thought. 

“Hey Cas? How come you never draw on yourself?” Okay, he didn’t actually mean to ask that so blatantly. Stupid brain.

Cas’s roller stops moving, and he turns his head to look at Dean.

“I guess… I never thought it was that important.” He pauses for a minute before switching to a small brush to fill in some white he couldn’t get with the roller. “I’m not even sure I believe in it,” he adds. Dean can hear a hint of sadness in his voice.

“Why not?”

Cas seems to be collecting his thoughts. Dean watches him swirl the paint brush in the can, and he can’t stop staring at his (fuck, _gorgeous_ ) hands.

“My parents never really talked about it when I was growing up,” he says. “They hinted at not actually being each other’s soulmate a few times, and I never bothered to ask them outright. They work just fine together. My aunt Anna and her husband Michael gush about it like it’s the greatest feeling in the world, but they’ve always been a little bit spacey, so I don’t exactly have faith in their stories. I find it much more believable to think of the world in terms of physical laws, equations, and other measurable quantities.”

Dean feels his heart break a little at that. Cas is a physics major, a brilliant physics major. It makes sense that he’d think that way, but, “Aren’t you curious, though?”

Cas shrugs. “Sometimes. But I just…” He trails off, eyes flicking to Dean’s quickly then back at the plywood steeple he was working on.

“Just what?” Dean asks.

“It’s silly.”

“I’m not gonna judge you, Cas. You know that, right?”

A small sigh escapes his friend. “I’m worried I’m going to disappoint them,” he said finally. “That I won’t be good enough, or that I won’t be what they’re looking for. Or even worse, that I don’t actually have a soulmate at all.”

“Are you kidding me?” Dean asks incredulously.

Cas flinches, and Dean wants to smooth out the crease between his eyebrows.

“You’re amazing, Cas. You’re smart, funny, talented, hot—don’t give me that look, you know you are,” Dean tells him. “Anyone would be lucky to be paired with you. You deserve to be happy, Cas. Isn’t that worth a shot?”

Cas’ lips twitch upward. “Thank you, Dean. Perhaps you’re right.”

Dean beams at him.

“Though,” Cas starts, “I have definitely gotten pen ink on me before. Maybe the other person hasn’t drawn anything yet?”

Dean shakes his head. “Nah, it has to be deliberate. It doesn’t have to be pen ink, either. Hell, Benny met Andrea after he drew a smiley face on his chest in freaking hot sauce.”

“I never knew that…” Cas says. “That’s pretty gross.”

“Tell me about it. She said it didn’t smell or stain anything on her end, but I wouldn’t take that chance.” Dean laughs, thinking of a few ways something like that could go terribly wrong.

“Think about it, at least,” he concludes.

“What would I even write?”

“Dunno, whatever you want. Your favorite animal, maybe?”

Cas hums in thought. They trade places so Cas can finish the white on the sides of the church and Dean can work on the red and black on the roof and windows.

“You know you’re wonderful, right, Dean?” Cas asks abruptly. “Your soulmate will be lucky, too.” Dean feels dizzy at the compliment, not even able to counteract with his usual litany of self-deprecating comments.

“Thanks, Cas.”

 

* * *

 

Three hours later, all of the set pieces are painted, the floor mats are taped down, the props and costumes are lugged down from the prop loft, Mr. Roche nearly squeals in delight at the progress made, and they are free to go.

Dean heads to the bathroom to wash the paint and sawdust off his hands, with a promise to his friends that he’ll meet them at the dining hall in a few minutes.

Dean punches the soap dispenser twice and pushes up his sleeves a few inches with his forearms. He rubs his hands together and holds them under the faucet, waiting for the water to start. As the soap begins to rinse away, his breath catches in his throat.

On the inside of his left wrist is a small, lopsided, white bee. Dean’s heart rate speeds up, and he doesn’t bother washing the rest of the soap off his hands before bringing his wrist right up to his eyes. He hadn’t felt anything unusual. Didn’t Sam and Charlie say that they felt a tingling sensation the first time it happened? Maybe it’s just an odd paint splotch and not something deliberately drawn? No… there’s a distinct face, stripes, two little wings… even a short trail of dashes leading toward the fading bridge he’d drawn earlier. He rubs his thumb gently over the drawing like it’s made of gold. He can’t feel any texture, as he excepted, so he really doesn’t know what they drew it with. Sharpie? White-Out? Paint? Eyeliner?

He pumps the soap dispenser a half dozen more times and scrubs the soap into his forearm to get rid of his own doodle so only the bee will be showing. The skin strings and reddens when he rinses and dries it, but he can’t stop staring at the bee and running his fingers over it.

His mind swirls with questions he’d only thought of before in passing. Who is it? What are they doing right now? How soon should he draw something back? _What_ should he draw back?

He has to tell Sammy. And Cas, and Charlie, and Jo, and Benny, and his mom, and every single stranger he passes from now on because it’s only a matter of time until he finds the person he is meant to be with.

Dean takes out his phone and snaps a quick photo of the drawing, texting it to Sam with a “Guess what, bitch?” He locks the photo in his gallery folder, wanting to make sure he never forgets about this, even after the image fades.

He bounds out of the building, practically running to the dining hall to tell his friends the good news.

_Finally._

 

* * *

Dean is all smiles as he walks toward the large group with a bowl of soup and some crackers, a seat open for him between Cas and Dorothy. He sits, his story on the tip of his tongue, but his face falls when he sees the lanky kid from earlier with his head in his hands, Hannah’s arm around him in comfort, and hushed voices telling him it’ll be okay.

Dean turns to Cas to figure out what’s going on.

“Alfie’s parents are getting divorced,” Cas whispers. “His dad just called him and told him.” Despite the sad news, the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and Dean barely suppresses a shiver. He forgets all about his soulmate for the few seconds that he can feel Cas’s warm breath against his ear.

When Cas pulls away, Dean knows he can’t tell his friends now. This isn’t the right time. Alfie sniffles as he explains that his parents are perfect for each other and he doesn’t understand why they are splitting up. If he’s being honest with himself, Dean feels a little less joyful about the possibility of connecting with his soulmate now. After all, finding your soulmate isn’t a cosmic guarantee that things will work out. Just a strong nudge in the right direction.

After a few minutes, Gabriel distracts Alfie with a game of French fry Jenga. It topples onto Alfie’s lap, making the kid laugh. Jo threatens to shave Gabriel’s head when a fry falls into her tea, and the awkward atmosphere is broken. They spend the next 20 minutes trading stories about the times they forgot a line or missed a cue in past plays and musicals.

“Hey, Cas, are you going to finish those nachos?” Dorothy asks. “Charlie’s been eyeing them for the past five minutes,” she laughs.

“No, they’re all yours. Dean, can you pass this down?” Cas takes the mostly full plate in both hands and holds it out to Dean to pass along. He barely has his hands on the plate when he sees Cas’s wrist, and freezes.

_The white bee._

If Dean thought his heart was beating fast when he first found the drawing on his own wrist, seeing the matching one on Cas’s makes him feel like he’s having a heart attack. He stares at the doodle. The paint is starting to flake off, and it looks even more lopsided than it does on his own wrist, but it’s _perfect_. He knows he has to pass down the stupid nachos but he can’t get his limbs to move. He can barely _breathe_ , for God’s sake.

“Dean, are you okay?” Cas asks gently, still holding onto the plate. Dean snaps back to reality and turns to meet his friend’s concerned gaze, but time seems to be standing still.

Dean’s eyes sweep over Cas’s face, something he’s done a bazillion times, but it all seems so new. His sharp cheek bones, his slightly parted lips, the subtle laugh lines in the corners of his eyes and the not-so-subtle bags from losing sleep over his classes. His dark hair that never lays flat, his two-day stubble, his _eyes_. He can’t get enough.

 _God, this is who I’m meant to be with,_ he thinks. _It’s Cas. It’s always been Cas._

Dean can’t tell him. Not yet. He has to process this first. But what if… What if Cas is disappointed? Dean feels a lump in his throat at the thought, and the negative thoughts come pouring in. Cas deserves so much better than Dean. Someone who won’t be afraid to commit to something more than a few dates. Someone who he can raise a family with, if he wants that. Someone who won’t lose his temper over the littlest things. Someone who knows how to love. Someone who knows how to _be loved_.

Cas deserves that someone more than anyone, and that someone isn’t Dean.

The universe made a mistake.

Dean barely registers the shattering of the plate over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. He pushes his chair away from the table, knocking over at least one person’s drink, and rushes to get out of there.

“Dean? What’s wrong? Where are you going?” Cas calls after him, but Dean can’t turn and look at him.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t remember the walk back to his dorm. Luckily, his feet knew where to go, and they carried him there safely. Tears prick at his eyes as he flops face first onto his bed, not bothering to turn on the lights. He knows Cas will give him time, but that he’ll eventually come check on him. That’s just the kind of wonderful friend he is. 

 _Wonderful._ Cas had called him that earlier in the shop. But was he just being nice, or did he actually mean it? A voice in the back of his mind shouts that of course he meant it; Cas is the most honest person Dean’s ever known.

He doesn’t want to think about it. This is supposed to be a happy time, finding your soulmate, but Dean can’t stop feeling miserable. He kicks off his shoes and manages to crawl under his covers, hoping that he can sleep and at least stop feeling like his chest is going to pull an _Alien_.

 

* * *

 

It feels like hours later when Dean hears the sound of a key jiggling in the lock, but the digital clock on his nightstand tells him it hasn’t even been an hour. The door opens slowly, but the light doesn’t turn on.

“Dean?” Cas whispers, as if he doesn’t want to dusturb his roommate. Always so considerate, even when Dean probably scared the crap out of him earlier.

Dean tries to respond with an “I’m here,” but his voice is already hoarse, and it comes out a mumbled mess. He sighs, sitting up with his comforter still around his legs and waist.

He clears his throat and tries again. “Yeah, Cas.”

Castiel’s desk lamp flicks on then, and the dim light shows Cas placing his own backpack—and Dean’s, he hadn’t even realized he didn’t grab it—onto the floor. Cas takes a step closer to Dean’s bed, resting one hand on the corner post, the other tucked into his pocket.

“Is everything alright?”

Dean has to tell him. He owes it to his best friend to tell him why he freaked out and practically ran out of the dining hall. Cas needs to know so he doesn’t spend his whole life futilely looking for his soulmate like Dean had. He needs to know so he can find someone better.

“No,” Dean replies simply.

“Can I sit down?”

Dean nods, still unable to meet Cas’s eyes. His roommate brings one leg up onto the bed, the other dangling freely off the side. He’s wearing socks covered in smiling clouds, and it’s probably the cutest thing Dean has ever seen in his life.

Cas rests his hand on Dean’s knee—his left hand, and God, there’s the bee again. He rubs comforting circles with his thumb, and it feels like the spot is on fire even through the comforter and Dean’s jeans, just like it does every time Cas touches him somewhere.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” His voice is low and honey-smooth and so damn comforting. Dean never wants to stop listening to it.

It’s now or never. Dean places his hand over Cas’s, shivering at the contact despite the warmth of both their hands, and tugs the end of his sleeve up enough for Cas to see the matching mark on his skin.

Dean can hear Cas’s breath hitch, and he finally gets the courage to look at his friend’s face. But Cas isn’t looking at him. He grabs Dean’s wrist and brings it closer to him. He drags his index finger over the mark on Dean’s wrist, much like Dean had done when he first saw it. He traces the wings gently, then the stripes, and finally the dashes, and Dean can feel goose bumps pebble up along his arm.

“Dean…” Cas says his name almost reverently.

“I’m sorry, Cas.” Dean chokes out, unable to decide if he wants to flee or spend a few more seconds with Cas touching him.

“What? Why… why are you sorry?” Cas asks. He hasn’t let go of Dean’s arm yet. He brings his other hand up to cup Dean’s cheek, and Dean can’t help but lean into the touch, and _God_ , he’s wanted this for so long. Cas’s thumb brushes across his cheek, and he gently guides Dean’s face up to look him in the eye.

Cas looks hopeful, if a little confused, and Dean doesn’t know what to say. “I… Cas, you just… You deserve better than me,” he tries.

Cas’s hand slips from his face. “So you don’t want this?”

“What? No. I mean—God. Cas, of course I do. I lo…” Dean’s throat closes around the word. He can’t tell him that now, even though every fiber of his being is screaming at him to. “You mean everything to me.”

“And you mean just as much to me, Dean.” Cas laces their fingers together. Dean can practically feel the deep breath he takes before he says, “Despite my hesitation to believe in this, I’d… always hoped if it were real, if _soulmates_ were real, that you would be mine.”

Dean can’t breathe. Again. He knows he doesn’t have asthma, and that he’s in pretty decent shape, but right now he doesn’t know how to make his lungs work.

“As for what I deserve… There’s no one better than you, Dean.” He speaks slowly, as if not wanting to scare Dean away. “Everything you said to me earlier? About me being smart and funny and talented? I feel the same about you. I have for a… long time now,” he admits quietly.

Dean finds his voice, finally. “I also said you were hot.”

Castiel huffs. “You already know you’re hot, Dean. You hardly need me to tell you again.”

Dean can’t help it. He laughs. He laughs, and keeps laughing, and blinks away the few tears that threatened to spill over just a few minutes ago, and when he sees that gorgeous smile spread across Cas’s face, Dean’s done for.

He scooches closer to Cas, legs tangling in the blankets, and engulfs his best friend—his _soulmate_ —in a hug. Cas’s hands curl in the back of his shirt as they cling to each other. Dean’s emotions have been on a fucking roller coaster all day, but right now feels _happy._ Complete.

They break apart eventually, and Dean says, “I hope you know I’m gonna draw the sappiest shit on myself every single day from now on.”

Cas laughs, and it’s the best sound Dean’s heard in his entire life. “I wouldn’t expect any less.” He pauses, then, “But no hot sauce smiley faces.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Cas.”

Cas cups Dean’s face with both hands, and with a newfound boldness, Dean closes the small gap and presses his lips to Cas’s. His brain is stuck on a mantra of _right right right_ and _finally finally finally_ as their lips move together. Softly, unhurried. Dean feels Cas’s warm tongue swipe across his lip and he gasps, opening his mouth to let their tongues explore. Dean gives into the urge to run his fingers through Cas’s hair, which is even softer than it looks.

They wind up lying side by side on the bed, facing each other. Their hands explore lightly, but they don’t go beyond kissing. They have the rest of their lives for that, after all. He’s going to make sure of it. Dean feels lightheaded, giddy. They pull apart only when the text notifications on Dean’s phone get too annoying. He fishes the phone out of his pocket, one arm still wrapped around Cas’s waist, and sees a dozen messages from Charlie, Jo, Sam, and even his mom.

“Wanna take a picture, Cas?” Dean swears Cas’s smile is brighter than the sun as he nods and shuffles even closer Dean.

Dean faces the camera toward themselves and they manage to fit both of their faces and wrists in the frame. Right before Dean hits the photo button, Cas turns his face and captures his lips in a chaste kiss.

Dean sends the photo to all of their friends and his family with the caption, ‘ _Found him_.’

Which isn’t exactly true. 

They found each other.


End file.
